


Raindrops on Roses

by floorcoaster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floorcoaster/pseuds/floorcoaster
Summary: First kisses are never what you imagined. They are always more, always less.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 22
Kudos: 115





	Raindrops on Roses

**Author's Note:**

> 12/6/2019 - Posted at the request of lavinyajia on Tumblr! Thanks for requesting to see this story again!!
> 
> Original Story Notes: Written for itsbeenvery for the Hawthorn & Vine Reverse Challenge.  
> Beta(s): SUPER duper thanks to my last-minute betas, ivory88s and withdrawnred!

You know the way it looks when the sky is dark just before it rains? The way colors are different than they are in the sun—pink flowers glow, the green grass is fluorescent, despite the dull, grey sky. There's something … otherworldly about the air, too. Like I don't really belong right there, right then.

Sometimes I think she stands out like that. Not that she wears bright clothing or glows, at least not in the literal sense. It's when I'm not looking at her that I notice it most, when she's just out of my direct sight. My peripheral vision picks up this … aura. All right, you could call it a glow. But it isn't something you can see so much as sense. And it isn't something you can figure out easily. It takes time and patience, and I honestly don't think anyone ever bothered before.

***************************************************************

She isn't the type to kiss a bloke in the rain. She just isn't. The thing is, she _is_ the type to wish she was that type. The kissing-a-bloke-in-the-rain type. There have been moments when she's wanted to so badly she could taste it, but then her mind starts going and she thinks about how impractical it is, how sentimental, how five-quid romance it is. How cliché. How every hot-blooded woman or girl imagines what it would be like, how they fantasize about getting bloody drenched while snogging in the middle of a storm. And she isn't interested in being caught up in something that every other woman on the street is interested in.

At some point, she thinks, she'll have to go inside, and she'll be wet. All over. To her skin. And then she'll have to peel those clothes off, do something with her (abominable, sentient) hair, put on dry clothes, then remedy her chattering teeth. She hates coffee, too, but that's what she'd drink because she invariably used the last tea bag that morning. 

The coffee turns her off the kiss, and that flash of desire, kindled by silly romantic notions, is quashed. 

She wants to want that rainy, soggy kiss more than all of her reservations against it, but she hates this about herself, too. Why can't she be satisfied with perfectly normal, dry kisses?

***************************************************************

The first time Hermione Granger wanted to kiss me, it was raining.

We'd been fighting, of course. We were always fighting those days. We'd been working together on a project for the Department of Mysteries, and no, being partners was not our idea. It was probably the worst idea anyone at the Ministry has ever had, and that's saying quite a lot. We fought far more than we worked; nevertheless, we managed to get our assignments completed, and we always produced excellent results.

On occasion, our findings were phenomenal, and I suspect this was the reason they kept us paired, despite all the … incidents. 

We'd been fighting. It had started in her office, but when I walked away, slamming the door behind me, she followed. I'd heard enough of her for a year and it was only eleven in the morning so I kept walking. 

You may be thinking that I enjoyed the fighting and that's why I continued to provoke her. Not true—I hated the fact that she always read into every word I said, second-guessed my decisions, put words into my mouth. She was suspicious of every move I made, and I was sick and tired of it.

I know that my family had a lot to atone for after the war. I know the role I played, and not a day passed that I didn't question my decision, wonder how things might have turned out differently. But I've come a long way in the six years following the Dark L— _Voldemort's_ —death. I was respected by some and no longer feared by the general wizarding community. Every day, I worked hard to restore my name. 

It wasn't easy; every step was an uphill battle, but I was determined. 

So when Hermione Granger, who still thought she knew everything, made every attempt to expose and undermine me, it made me angry. 

I'll admit, I did my best to get under her skin. Every spiteful word, every sideways glance only fueled my desire to prove everyone wrong. To prove that I could make something of myself, rise above the past.

We'd been fighting over which step to take next in the project we were working on, and naturally we disagreed. What had started as a disagreement over logistics had devolved into name-calling and insulting of parentage. 

I don't even remember what she said that make me walk out. All I remember is that I had to leave before she came to harm. 

I'd made it to the lift before she caught up with me. I gritted my teeth as she yelled at me when the car was empty and glared when it wasn't. 

Not many people know that there's an actual entrance to the Ministry that lets out onto the street. She wasn't paying any attention to where we were going, just stomping after me, demanding that I respond. 

I threw open the door, and in two steps, I was drenched. I didn't care. 

After five steps, she called my name. Don't ask me why I stopped, why I turned around. There'd been something in her tone—I still don't have a name for it. 

I can tell when a woman wants to kiss me. There's something in her eyes that gives her away. Granger had that look, but there was more. She wanted to want to run into the rain, to get caught up in a moment, to be snogged senseless in a torrential downpour. That desire thrummed through her body as she stared at me, indecision warring in her mind. 

Dumbstruck, I could only stare back, so surprised I did nothing. Had she decided to pursue the whim, I wouldn't have been able to prevent her I was so stunned. 

You might think that the sudden switch from yelling at me to wanting to kiss me would affect me somehow, that it might make me suddenly want to kiss _her_ , and then there would be this storybook romance that followed. It would end with wedding bells and Chopin and guests clinking their glasses with their forks and spoons so you have to kiss.

What did she think might happen? 

Let me be clear: kissing Hermione Granger was the last thing I wanted to do at that moment, and when I thought about it later, was the last thing I'd ever want to do, period.

A car drove by, bringing with it the sound of four tires slicing through a heavy layer of water on the road. The spell was broken. Granger glared at me, then slammed the door shut. The rain was so loud I didn't hear it.

***************************************************************

That light, that aura. It was full of potential energy, that's what made it so Technicolor. It was as if the molecules surrounding Granger's body were vibrating faster than normal molecules. I came to realize that the aura was the result of everything she wanted to do, all of the things she thought about doing.

She was always half a heartbeat away from bursting out of her shell, the by-the-book, logical life she lived. There were many things she wished were different, not just kissing in the rain. Some of those things she truly wanted, others she didn't want to want. Together, all that potential, that energy on the verge of bursting, is what makes her glow.

***************************************************************

The second time she wanted to kiss me, she was drunk.

But it isn't what you think. It was Christmastime, about eight months after the rain incident. The Department of Mysteries was having its annual Christmas party, and Granger and I had a deadline that day. The party started before we finished, so once we were done, there wasn't much point in trying to excuse my way out. Besides, there was food and drink aplenty.

And Granger. 

The truth is, despite my wishes, the incident stuck in my head. How could it not? A woman I despised, with whom I'd been almost constantly fighting for two years, suddenly wants to kiss me, and I'm supposed to just forget it? I really would have preferred that. But two very elusive questions filled my head and wouldn't leave me in peace. 

Why did she _want_ to kiss me? Why _didn't_ she? 

Something had stopped her, and I had no idea how to find the answers.

Working together got … stranger. Something about our fights changed. They lost their bite. I suppose it had to happen. Eventually we stopped talking altogether except those conversations which were absolutely necessary to do our job. 

We managed, however, to work well together still. I think it had to do with her stubborn work ethic and my stubborn pride. If I am doing a job, it will be the best I can possibly do. The months between the rain and Christmas were productive but quiet. There was a hint of tension in the air, but we both ignored it well. Eventually, I got so used to it that I only noticed its absence whenever Granger was out.

The party was your typical workplace party: people drinking too much, doing or saying things they didn't have the nerve to say or do without the aid of alcohol, people moping about their relationships or jobs or whatever. I was biding my time, speaking briefly to the right people, hoping to get out as soon as I could. 

I kept loose tabs on Granger. It was a habit I'd developed after the rain incident, an annoying thing I couldn't shake. I had to know where she was in a room. If she left, I didn't care where she went, but when we were in close proximity, I had to know. Maybe I was trying to keep her at a safe distance. Maybe I wanted to see if I could catch her looking at me that way again.

I noticed that she always had a drink in her hand and that the liquid was a different color most times I looked. But it was none of my concern, at least not for the first two hours, forty-seven minutes. 

Then I was talking to Sophie, an Unspeakable I wanted very much to want but simply couldn't be bothered to work up the energy it would take. I should have known then there was something going on, but I figured it was a dry spell. I didn't think much of it. 

Granger came over and said something about the assignment we'd just completed, and Sophie left. I gritted my teeth as the bushy-haired witch went on and on about a conclusion she was having second thoughts about. One thing was fundamentally true. I preferred when Granger was on the other side of the room from me. 

As she spoke, I got more and more annoyed. I glared at her. "You know, we're supposed to be enjoying ourselves, having a good time. Not talking about work."

She narrowed her eyes for an instant, and then I saw it—that same look from months before. 

All I could do was stare, dumbfounded. Her whole body tensed, and she froze, her eyes taking on a wild look. The moment lasted mere seconds, but my blood burned through my veins as I stood there, waiting, unable to move.

She blinked and the spell passed. Her expression turned sad. With a weary look, she polished off the drink in her hand. Then she leaned forward, put her hand on my chest, and stood on her tip-toes to look into my eyes. Now I was frozen. 

But it wasn't a kiss she wanted then. Instead, she spoke very softly. "Sometimes, I wish I could let go."

Then she was gone, the feel of her breath against my skin a shivering memory. The party was too loud, the music glaring, and laughter grated on my nerves. I downed my drink and left. I didn't want to risk catching Granger alone in a corner. I didn't trust myself.

It's not that I wanted to kiss her or wanted her to kiss me, but I'd been thinking about her not kissing me for months. It wasn't much of a step to think about kissing her.

***************************************************************

The thing about potential energy is that it's just sitting there, waiting for the right circumstances to be unleashed. The longer it sits on the verge, the more potent it can be. There is potential energy in spring, a strung arrow, a pointed wand. A woman who is tightly wound around principles and ideals, caught in a self-made trap to prove herself

All it takes to release that energy is the right trigger.

***************************************************************

The forty-seventh time Granger wanted to kiss me, I didn't hesitate.

I kissed her.

It was snowing. Quite bizarre for April, but there's no accounting for the weather in London. I'd gone to a café near the Ministry for lunch. Despite the excuses I made for myself—I like the food, I needed the fresh air, needed to stretch my legs—the truth is that Granger had a lunch date, and I wanted to be anywhere but near her. It was a late lunch, and that would be my undoing, so to speak.

My table was near the window, and I watched unseeingly as snowflakes fluttered to the ground, melting before they could stick. I don't even remember what I ate. My thoughts were fixed on Granger. Hermione. I'd started calling her that in my mind; my memories of her had softened to her given name. 

All the sneering and derisive glares couldn't chase her out. She was stuck.

I'd started keeping track after the Christmas party. A month went by before the third, then two weeks, then one. I could tell she was fighting it, though. There would be weeks where she barely looked at me, much less anything else. 

Her comment at the party eventually gave her away. I watched her closely, and the pieces fell together. I understood her—one little piece, at least. Don't ask me why I found this glimpse into her inner-workings fascinating. I couldn't begin to explain myself, and believe me, I've tried. 

She just got stuck in my head, and after awhile, I didn't mind so much.

I was coming back from my lunch under a threatening sky. It was dark and cold. My hands were in my pockets, my gaze on the relentless pavement. 

She walked right past me, and I didn't even notice. Three steps, and she called my name. Her tone was the nagging one, where I expect to hear something I've done wrong, some way I've annoyed her, or how I insulted her or her friends. 

I braced myself. She walked up to me and started in. I hadn't signed off on a report we'd sent in the week before, and it was causing all kinds of delays in our funding and timetable. I gritted my teeth while she prattled on. 

When all I could hear was the sound of cars and people going by, I looked at her. She was waiting expectantly. I shrugged and told her I'd sign it first thing.

Then she just stood there staring at me. It started to snow. Her eyes widened and she looked up at the sky. I watched a flake drift lazily down and land on her hair. Something came over me at that moment. It's my only explanation for what followed. 

I'd discovered the answer to one of my questions. I knew what had stopped her from kissing me that first time, almost exactly one year before. 

But as for _why_ she'd wanted to kiss me, added to that mystery were the subsequent forty-five almost-instances. I was still stumped.

With my hands shoved in my pockets, I looked up at the sky, too. Probably because she was still staring, blinking away approaching snowflakes with a look of wonder on her face. I didn't quite get the appeal, so I looked down again, only to find her giving me that look again. For the forty-seventh time.

The thing is that I'd wanted to kiss her since the thirty-first time. I'd started counting without meaning to. Her looks weren't glaringly obvious; they were subtle, but for some reason, they spoke to me. It wasn't until the tenth time that I realized I'd been keeping track. Just like how I watched her in a room. 

In an instant, I decided that I couldn't make it to forty-eight; I had to know why. 

So I kissed her. She was so surprised that she resisted, which made me chuckle against her lips. She didn't appreciate this, and pushed me away. I grabbed her arm though and pulled her back against me. Only, the nerve I'd used to kiss her left me, and I stood there not knowing what to do. 

The snow drifted down around us. 

I'm going to tell you a secret. Behind the façade of arrogance, snobbery, and confidence, I'm rather helpless. I can approach a hundred women I've just met, but when faced with the one woman I respect and admire, all of my experience is for naught. 

She stood there, peering up at me first with indignation, then wariness, then puzzlement, until her features softened. I started to let her go, recoiling at what I imagined she was thinking—poor Malfoy, what was he thinking? Maybe I'd been wrong about those looks she'd been giving me. Maybe just that morning she decided I wasn't worth her time or her sideways glances. 

Then, finally, she did it. Potential energy finally caught up to her.

All I can say about it is that it felt right. I guess she felt that way too because she smiled at me. 

My stomach dropped then because I knew I was in for something I wasn't ready for. I also knew it would be something I couldn't live without.

***************************************************************

It wasn't a rainy, soggy kiss, but precipitation was involved. The good thing is, she didn't get to think about it, which is part of her problem. She thinks too much. And she knows this about herself, and she thinks too much about how she thinks too much.

That snowy kiss silenced her mind, if only for a brief moment. But it got me thinking. 

She isn't the type to kiss a bloke in the rain. 

So I bought her an umbrella.

LA FIN

***************************************************************

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY, so G, I really hope you like this. I couldn't believe my luck when I got to write for you, but then I was also all kinds of nervous, because you're all kinds of awesome and I had to write something you'd be happy with. I hope I have succeeded.


End file.
